


For a Little While

by Hinn_Raven



Series: Dollhouse AU [1]
Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dollhouse Fusion, Background Relationships, Dark, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, It's a Dollhouse AU so you know, Originally Posted on Tumblr, nothing on page though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2019-09-06 16:13:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16836082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinn_Raven/pseuds/Hinn_Raven
Summary: Dick Grayson sells his soul to Cadmus to save his brother. He gathers others who will join him in the Dollhouse; a special kind of hell.





	For a Little While

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday Dani! I hope you don’t mind, but I wrote the first part of the Dollhouse AU! =] Obviously I couldn’t fit everyone in, but I hope you like what I’ve written so far!
> 
> **ETA 12/03/2018: I'm crossposting a good deal of content that was tumblr exclusive currently. If you are unfamiliar with Dollhouse, please look it up and decide if you wish to proceed. I do not directly go into details of what happens during an imprint, but it is implied, like the tag says. Please use your own discretion if you're sensitive to topics like this.**

He sat by the hospital bed, listening to the faint beeps of the machines. He cradled his head in his hands, his black hair a mess. He wore clothes that hadn’t been washed in days, and he smelled like he hadn’t showered in just as long. Tears stained his pant leg.

The hospital room was painfully sterile and white, although the flowers that decorated the room were obnoxiously colorful and aromatic. _Get well soon_ was written on all of them.

Richard John Grayson sat by his brother’s bedside, and waited.

Jason looked dangerously pale, his eyes sunken shut. His dark hair had been shaved close, a far contrast to the ridiculously long style that he preferred it in. Dick’s first thought, when he’d seen Jason like that, had been _Jason’s going to hate that haircut_.

The funeral had been yesterday. Dick had forced himself to leave Jason’s bedside long enough to attend. He’d even given a speech. He didn’t remember it now, but Lucius had patted him on the shoulder and even hugged him afterward, so he couldn’t have completely blown it.

Bruce was just… gone. Dick bowed his head even lower, resting his head against his knees. He should have been there. Maybe he could have helped….

A car accident. Of all things on Earth, it had to be a car accident that brought his family down.

Jason wasn’t going to wake up. The doctor had told him that yesterday. She’d been very nice about it, but she rattled off statistics and told him about plunging readings and about how, as Jason’s brother, (not even legal guardian—Jason had turned eighteen the week before) he had the responsibility to make the decision about what was going to happen…

“Dammit Jason,” he whispered. “Why’d you do this to me?”

He looked at Jason, who just lay there unmoving, not listening to him, as usual. He grabbed Jason’s hand and squeezed, praying that he would feel something back. There wasn’t anything.

“Richard,” a familiar voice from behind made him turn around.

Lex Luthor, with his smooth bald head and his fine business suit, was standing there.

“Can I help you, Mr. Luthor?” Dick asked dully, hoping this wasn’t to do with Wayne Enterprises. Lucius was taking over as CEO, Dick had signed the papers and everything, Dick was just a shareholder now…

“Just wanted to pay my respects,” Luthor had always reminded Dick of a snake. His smile was toothless and predatorily, and his voice absolutely oozed snake oil, like a used car salesman. Jason had once joked that if he squinted, he could see the scales on Luthor’s head. Bruce had laughed hard at that, ruffling Jason’s hair and telling him never to say that in public.

“Shouldn’t you save that for funerals?” Dick asked, feeling empty. He was exhausted, and felt drained. All he wanted to do was to fall asleep, and maybe never wake up. Or wake up and find out that this whole disaster had just been one long, awful dream.

“Well,” Luthor said, moving into the room, expensive shoes loud against the shiny tile, “Thought I’d come to see how you were holding up then.”

“My father just died, Mr. Luthor,” Dick said, getting to his feet and drawing himself up to his full height. (He was just as tall as Luthor—5’ 10”, perfectly average, although compared to Bruce’s 6’3”, he had always been small.) “My brother is in a coma, and they’re telling me that he won’t wake up.” His clear blue eyes met Luthor’s. “I’m not in the mood for games.”

“Of course not,” Luthor said, smiling in that way of his that made Dick want to punch him. “Very well. What if Jason _could_ wake up?”

Dick blinked, stunned, and unsure of where this was going. “What do you mean?”

“My company, Cadmus, has a new procedure. My top technician has been after me to allow her to test it on a coma victim, and Jason seems like he would be a perfect candidate. His readings fall exactly within her specifications. For the right price, Jason could wake up. He could live his life again.”

“What price?”

“Your loyalty,” Luthor reached into the briefcase he’d carried in with him, and offered Dick a thick looking contract. “I’d like you to head our operation in Los Angeles. And, of course, the procedure takes time. Five years.”

“Five years.” Dick repeated, unable to believe what he was hearing was real. He turned and stared at Jason, who looked peaceful in his slumber.

“Tell me more.”

* * *

Her hands shook as they lay on the table.

“Artemis Crock,” the man sitting across from her was old. Dark hair streaked with white, like a skunk, hung around his face in a neat cut that seemed to fit the image he was projecting of a respectable businessman. His eyes were pitch black, and watched her every twitch. He was of Arabic descent from the looks of things, his features finely chiseled and defined despite his aging. His well-manicured hands opened a manila file that lay on the table between them. He flipped it, turning it toward her.

It was her service file. Her own face, a few years younger and happier, grinned up at her. She wore her uniform, her sniper rifle slung across her back. Her long blonde hair was in a ponytail, peeking out from underneath her military issued hat. The background was a dessert, and she was flanked by a well-muscled man with a white-blonde buzz-cut and an Indian woman with a cleanly shaven head. Artemis knew that picture. She’d taken it on her first day in Afghanistan, and sent it to her mother.

“You were a sniper, weren’t you?” The businessman (what was his name again? Something Arabic, she was pretty sure.) Smiled at her, his eyes calculating as she touched the picture. She looked away quickly. “The best female sniper—”

“The best,” she corrected harshly, her voice steady, even though her hands were not. She put them on her lap, clasping them tightly, hoping that would stop the shaking. “Queen had nothing on me.”

“His count was nearly four times yours.” The man was mocking her, his eyes as cold as his smile was kind.

“He was in the military for twenty years,” she said. “I was only there for three. I would’ve beat him.”

“If it weren’t for the accident,” Ghul ( _that_ was his name) said, tapping a section of the folder.

Artemis hissed. “That wasn’t an _accident_.”

Ghul shrugged calmly. “The official report says otherwise,” he pulled a series of pictures out of the folder, and spread them out in front of her.

_The blood was staining the sand, coming too fast. She pulled against Cam’s arms, which held her in place. He was shouting something in her ear, but she didn’t listen, couldn’t listen, she had to **stop them**._

_Her CO looked at her coldly. “I told you not to go off mission, Crock.”_

_“They were **kids** ,” she yelled, her voice hoarse from screaming and dehydration and swallowing sand. “You son of a bitch, they were **kids**!”_

“Ms. Crock.”

Artemis shook herself out of the flashback, panting heavily.

“After your dishonorable discharge, you were diagnosed with PTSD,” Ghul was enjoying this, dammit. Artemis realized that her fingernails were digging into her hands, drawing blood. Slowly, she unclenched her hands, hissing in pain.

“Yeah,” she snarled. “Is this just going to be you recapping my life? Because I already know it.” She didn’t look at the photographs again. She stared right into his eyes. “Don’t waste my time.”

“You can’t even hold your silverware, let alone a gun. You’ve got no money, no family, no prospects, no future. You can’t even get treatment, thanks to that dishonorable discharge on your file.”

Artemis’s nostrils flared. “ _Get. To. The. Point_.”

He leaned forward. “What if it didn’t have to be that way?”

“What do you mean?”

His smile was more real now, but there was a definite cruel set to it. Artemis resisted the urge reach for a gun that she no longer carried—she couldn’t even fire it if she had. “The Cadmus Corporation is a medical company, and I represent them. We’d like you to sign on.”

“What, to be a guinea pig?” She said derisively. She’d rather take her chances and track down Jade. Or even Dad.

“Oh no. We know it will work.” Her head snapped up, unable to believe what she was hearing. “Guaranteed. We can cure your PTSD.”

It was… too good to be true. Literally. She glared at him, crossing her arms, her hands gripping her biceps tightly to hide the tremors. “What’s the catch?”

“Five years.” His voice was silk, making the words sound innocent and innocuous.

“What?” 

“For five years, you will remain in our treatment facility and undergo treatment. But you won’t remember a thing. You will enter the facility, fall asleep, and wake up five years later… without your trauma, or a single memory.”

“You can just _do_ that?”

Ghul’s smile was like a snake. She hated him. “You’d be very well compensated for participating in this venture of course…” he slid a piece of paper across the table.

She stared at the number. It was larger than what she would have made from the military in fifty years, let alone five. “What will happen to me there?”

“Just experiments, Ms. Crock. But you will be cured. Completely.” 

Artemis stared at her hands, and imagined them steady.

“Where do I sign?”

* * *

“I can help you,” Babs said, looking at West.

West was scrawny—about twenty or so years old. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair was wild. He muttered under his breath, looking around, unable to focus on anything or anyone for a long period of time.

An excited smile crept onto Babs’ face. He was broken. Absolutely shattered. Paranoid Schizophrenic, according to the file that Doctor Zoloman had given to her when she had entered the hospital. What a challenge.

“Help? Help. _Help?_ ” West muttered, green eyes peering at her, squinting as if he couldn’t really see her, or didn’t believe she was actually there.

She placed a hand on his, and looked into his misty eyes. “Yes.” She smiled at him.

* * *

“Don’t make this harder on yourself, Kaldur,” Dick said practically, tapping the contract with one finger.

The two men were in an absolutely gorgeous room. Dark wooden panels lined the walls. The carpet was plush and red, the color of blood. The table was made of glass, on a brass stand. The chairs were red velvet in brass settings.

Dick was pristine in a grey linen suit, his hair neatly styled. Silver cufflinks shone, and his immaculate blue silk tie stood out against the crisp white undershirt. His face was emotionless, calculating, even. Clever eyes (the same color as his tie) watched the older man, following his every move.

Kaldur paced the room, mouth set into a thin line. Rage filled every inch of his body as he moved, his shoulders shaking. “I know what you will do with me,” he snarled, rounding on Dick. He wore a ripped black shirt and pants, both hugging his muscular frame tightly. His blonde hair had been cropped short, military style. He had no shoes. He smelled of smoke. His emotions were laid bare, and fury flashed brightly in his olive eyes. “I understand the consequences of that contract, unlike the others.”

Dick smiled blandly, hiding his guilt beneath the perfect mask. “You also understand the consequences of your actions if you don’t sign.” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit, and produced an expensive gold fountain pen. He extended it, tilting it slightly so that it flashed in the light of the room. “You don’t have much of a choice.”

Kaldur’s eyes drilled holes in Dick, but Dick did not flinch–did not even drop the smile. Kaldur took the pen and pulled the contract closer to him, staring at the thick bundle of pages as if they would disappear if he wished hard enough.

 _Kaldur Durahm_ , he wrote, mouth a thin line, his hands shaking with barely contained rage. Dick wondered if the man had considered attempting to kill him with the pen instead of signing the contract with it.

Dick flashed his perfected meaningless smile. He stood up, brushing the folds out of his suit. He extended a hand. Kaldur stared at him, incredulous at that action. He lowered it after a second, gathering up Kaldur’s contract instead.

“Welcome to the dollhouse, Echo,” he said.

* * *

Agent Roy Harper of the FBI punched a wall.

He did that a lot.

“Dead end,” he griped, glowering at the world in general. “ _Another_ one.”

“What did you think would happen?” Donna Troy, his former partner (and girlfriend), was waiting for him in his office. Her arms were crossed. She wore her business suit, her badge and holster displayed at her hip. Her long black hair hung loose for once, falling over her shoulder.

“What are you doing here Donna?” He grumbled, trying to slip past her for the security and comfort of his chair. “I’ve been out all night.”

“What, looking for that informant of yours?” Her lips were an invisible line. “She’s _mob_ , Roy.”

“Brooks has dirt on the Dollhouse, Donna,” he insisted, slinking around her and throwing himself down into his chair with a sigh of relief. “She’ll lead me to them.”

Donna slammed her hands down on the arms of his swivel chair, pinning him there. She leaned in, blue eyes blazing. “Roy! The Dollhouse _isn’t real_. Remember? This is where they put you after you fucked up with that undercover mission. And if you’d stop _obsessing_ , and trashing your psyche evals, they’d let you out of here!”

He pushed her away, getting to his feet. “Why don’t you just leave me here, Troy?” He snapped. “If you think I’m so crazy?”

Her face darkened. “You’re my _partner_ , Roy. I care about you.”

“Fine way of showing it,” he snapped. “You think I’m crazy.”

“I think you’re _obsessed_. Roy, just let it go. The Dollhouse is a rumor, or a fancy name for human traffickers. But this…” she waved her hand around the office, where Roy had pinned schematics and photographs and claims that the ‘Dolls’ were programmable people, along with every piece of evidence he’d been able to find. “You’re grasping at straws!”

“People are missing!” He yelled, grabbing the nearest file, one on William Batson, and waving it at her. “They disappear, and then people who fit their exact descriptions pop up all over the country.”

“People run away Roy. People get murdered, people die, people get kidnapped, but people _don’t turn into puppets that people can program._ ” She snatched the Batson file out of his hands. “And sometimes,” she flipped it open, revealing a fuzzy picture, dated two weeks ago, of a scrawny looking kid about the age of sixteen. “Coincidences happen.”

“No they don’t.” Roy said flatly.

“Fine,” Donna straightened up, tossing the file onto his desk, which was covered with similar ones. “Then I guess I’ll go to Director Prince and tell her I’ll be accepting Dearden as my new partner after all.”

“They’re putting you with _Dearden_?” Roy couldn’t help but ask. “I thought Hawke was her partner.”

“Classified,” Donna said, turning away from him.

“I have clearance!” He shouted at her retreating back.

“Not anymore.” She walked away, her heels clicking against the tile.

Roy sighed, running his hands through his hair.

She didn’t understand. None of them did.

* * *

“I realize you’re new, Kent,” Babs said, wheeling around her work space with a frown on her face. “But I don’t like having my methods questioned.”

Kent shrugged his shoulders. “I was a policeman once, Gordon. It’s… all of this… it’s weird.”

“What’s weird is you getting a job here,” Babs said, snatching an imprint from its location and moving back towards the chair, where Echo sat patiently. “Just do the job.”

Echo looked at them, his eyes following the conversation perfectly, despite his blank face. Karen stood by the monitor, fiddling with the display.

“It’s just a simple mission.”

“It’s a weird one,” Karen said, dragging her fingers down the display, lowering the levels. “We’ve never had an operative engage in a kidnapping rescue mission before.”

“This should be interesting,” Babs muttered, placing the imprint in the necessary case. “Lay down, Echo.”

“Okay,” he said quietly, smiling at them in a truly innocent manner. He moved his feet onto the seat, and it moved back slowly.

“So this is an amalgam?” Kent asked, watching as Echo’s eyes closed.

“A complete construct created from brain scans of about five different people, creating a truly unique skillset and personality,” Babs said, unable to resist a smile. “I am _good_.”

“Other houses have problems with that. Babs is the best,” Karen explained, grinning. “Her technique for uploading is twenty times as fast as anyone else’s.”

“More like thirty,” Babs said. “Now, let’s get,” she checked the clipboard, “Calvin Curry moving.”

* * *

“Lady Morton,” Dick’s practiced client smile slid onto his face like the next slide in a presentation. One minute he was scowling, the next he was cool and collected, smiling and pleasing to the clients. “Do sit down.”

“It’s Marsh-Morton, actually,” she said with a smile, sliding into a chair across from him. Dick’s office was a sight to behold. It was open and airy, with the entire back wall made up of large, single paneled glass. The floor was made of highly polished wood, and the desk was the same. Elegant book cases lined the walls, filled with neatly bound books that didn’t have a single crack in their spines. A long granite counter ran around one wall, below the bookcases, which contained heavy crystal decanters filled with amber colored liquid, and a series of delicate glasses in various shapes.

Lady Marsh-Morton was a beautiful woman. Her skin was elegantly tanned, her hair was naturally blonde, and her eyes were dark blue. She smiled, revealing neatly straightened white teeth. Her cheekbones were low, her brow was neatly sculpted. She wore jeans and a low cut red silk blouse which elegantly draped over her curves. She crossed her legs as she sat, while Dick opened the file on her request which lay in front of him.

“I hope everything’s in order?” Lady Marsh-Morton’s English accent was smooth and polished. Education dripped from every syllable.

“Yes,” Dick said. He raised an eyebrow. “I hadn’t realized you were such a fan of the outdoors,” he commented.

“I love it.” She said serenely. “It’s relaxing.”

“Well,” Dick closed the file, smiling. “It should be no problem.”

* * *

“Look,” Brooks drawled, her long black hair falling into her face. Her features were delicate and Asian, painfully similar to Jade’s in Roy’s mind. She brushed her hair out of the way, eyes darting around. “I’ve got a name,” she whispered, her voice dropping.

Brooks was a muscled woman—her arms were corded tightly and the green dress she wore clung to her stomach, with the holes in the sides revealing the impressive abdomen muscles. She sat next to him in the dump of a bar they’d arranged as their meeting place, just two people happening to make conversation.

Roy sat up, leaning forward. “A name?” He clutched his glass tightly, the amber liquid within rippling as he disturbed it.

“Man of the name of Bane,” she said, drumming her fingers on the bar—a nervous tic. Not that he really blamed her. Brooks was as dirty as they came—a medium level gangster and con artist, with a rap sheet the size of a dictionary, but if what she’d told him about her bosses were true, she’d be tortured excruciatingly before she was killed if anyone found out she was snooping around the Dollhouse. “My man said that he supplies them with a weird drug—there’s supposed to be a meeting between him and one of the Dollhouse guys on Wednesday.”

“Where?” Roy demanded. Brooks scribbled an address on the cocktail napkin and shoved it at him.

“Watch out for him,” she said, turning her head away. “They say he breaks necks instead of shooting people.”

Roy snorted, throwing back the remainder of his whiskey, savoring the burn. “I doubt it.”

* * *

His name was Eric, and his girlfriend was trying to kill him. Another shot rang out, and he scrambled, his feet sending the pebbles and gravel flying in all directions as he ran to avoid the shot—and death.

She strode behind him, two pistols in each hand. She wore her red leather jacket zipped low, showing off her cleavage, and her pants were leather as well—black leather. He had wondered, earlier, why she wore them while in the wilderness, but he hadn’t questioned it.

Elaine Marsh-Morton, his girlfriend, smiled as she fired another shot. Eric threw himself into the nearby undergrowth, and the bullet went into a tree instead. Splinters flew everywhere, including on to him. “C’mon!” She laughed. “At least make this _hard_. _”_

Eric ran, his heart racing as he dodged low-hanging branches and pushed his way through the woods. “Help me,” he muttered, not sure to whom he was speaking. “Help me, help me, _help me_.”

He could hear her behind him, moving slowly, leisurely, through the forest. He could hear the sounds of her reloading, and he sped up, the branches whipping at his dark skin as he ran. He had to get help, there had to be someone in this forest besides him and that madwoman.

He turned a corner, colliding into another man. He was white, with a black hair and blue eyes. He carried a weapon—a large, military grade thing that sent alarm bells ringing inside Eric’s head. He scrambled away, and took off again.

“ _Echo_!” He thought he heard the man yell, but he was fast—faster than the other man, faster than Elaine. He threw himself fully into the mercy of the forest, and did his best to get to the highway.

He wasn’t sure how long he ran for. Eventually, though, thirst made itself known, his mouth and throat aching and his head spinning. His feet, despite being clad in the sensible shoes Elaine had bought him, ached from the effort of running. He was caked in sweat, his red t-shirt clinging to him.

He tried to think of how he could find water in the forest—there had to be a way, surely, when he spotted it. A tall, saw-log cabin, with a crude sign that read _Forest Ranger._ He felt a surge of energy that he had thought was long gone—water, a phone, maybe even a vehicle. He pushed open the door. “Help!” He rasped, his voice too dry to shout properly. His head span. “Please.”

No one was there. The lights were all out. Just his luck. He stumbled in, spotting the phone. He grabbed it, punching in the familiar digits of 9-1-1.

There was nothing. Not even a dial tone. He tried a nearby light switch. The electricity must not be working. He spotted—much to his relief, a canteen full of water. He grabbed it and downed it as quickly as he could, his mouth and throat singing as they finally were refreshed.

Suddenly, the room did a three-sixty, sending Eric crashing to the floor, his head pounding. “What—”

_He was Calvin Curry, and that child was going to **die** if he didn’t help him. “Listen to me!” He yelled, keeping his hands where they could be seen, while never removing his eyes from Orin—he knew him, the things that man had **done** to him—“He’ll kill you all, if you don’t—”_

_“Tim, no, you stay here, tell them you were working late, just got caught up! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to get you into this.” He was Kaldur and Tim was bleeding, the red staining his pant leg and Kaldur’s hands, and Kaldur needed to get away from him, otherwise everything would be for nothing…._

_“Did I fall asleep?” He was Echo, and everything was soothing and calm. Barbara’s smiling face looked down at him, and Conner was there too—“Only for a little while.”_

_He was Percy, and he was leaving the party. He got into a van, where a familiar man was waiting for him…_

_He was Echo again, and Sierra was sitting next to him, staring blankly at their new friend Victor as he walked into Barbara’s office._

_He was Tyson and he was guarding Lisa with his life._

_He was Echo and someone was screaming—Alpha was hurting someone— **who was Alpha there was no Alpha.**_

_He was Kaldur and he was kissing someone and promising them that everything would be okay, they could stop Cadmus._

_“Do you trust me?” Conner was asking Echo, smiling at him. “With my life,” Echo responded, the programming doing its job._

_He was Arthur and he was—_

_He was Markus and he was—_

_He was Tiberius and he was—_

_He was_

_He was_

_He was_

_He was Kaldur staring at a man who was speaking calmly as he painted a vivid picture of the future._

_And he could do nothing to stop it._

Eric opened his eyes and screamed, clutching at the sides of his head, shaking as he lay on the floor of the cabin. Everything hurt, and the world spun wildly.

The door of the cabin was thrown open and a familiar man walked in. Eric stared up at him—he’d seen him in his hallucinations.

Conner knelt by Eric and grabbed his hands. “Do you trust me?” He demanded concern filling his voice.

Eric—Echo? No, he was Eric, that was his name, wasn’t it?—stared up at him, terrified. “No.”

* * *

Alpha stared at the picture of Echo in front of him, a smile on his face. The bodies of the men around him lay all over the floor, their blood staining the carpet. He slipped the photograph into the envelope and sealed it. He carefully addressed it.

 _Roy Harper_ , he wrote, using the handwriting of a man dead for fifteen years.

He smiled.

“I’m coming Omega,” he whispered to himself.

* * *

Dick made the call.

“This is Drake,” the voice on the other end said.

“Tim!” Dick grinned, despite himself. Tim Drake had won him over during the past five years.

“Dick!” He could hear Tim smiling. “How are you?”

“Good enough,” he wasn’t stupid. He knew the line was tapped. “How’s Jason?”

“Hermes is on assignment right now,” Tim said.

Dick froze despite himself, as usual, as he heard those words. “Oh?”

“A romantic cruise,” Tim said. “Nice. Easy.”

Dick pressed the heel of his hand against his eye. “That sounds great, Tim.”

 _Forgive me Jason_ , he thought as he said goodbye and hung up. _God, I hope you don’t hate me too much for what I did to you._

“Dick?” It was Zatanna, impeccable in her neat suit.

“Zatanna,” he grinned at her, wiping away every negative emotion. He trusted his assistant, but not enough to ever let her suspect about Jason. He didn’t trust anyone that much, except for Tim.

* * *

Brooks had sold him out. Roy probably should have expected that.

Oh, Bane had been there alright. Waiting for him. With a lot of men. And guns. And knives.

He stumbled into his apartment.

“Roy?” His neighbor, Cassie, had spotted him. He was quite a sight—covered in blood (some his, some theirs), in a ruined suit, and seething. Cassie rushed towards him, immaculate in her green shirt and white linen skirt. “Roy, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he grumbled, trying not to make eye contact. Cassie didn’t accept that as an answer, dragging him into her apartment to clean him up.

“What _happened_?” She demanded, wiping his face off with a warm, damp towel.

“Information was bad,” he said distantly, mentally planning how he would kill Brooks. Maybe he’d just tell her bosses she was his informant. Why get his hands dirty? “Walked into a trap.”

Cassie pushed her blonde hair back, frowning at him. “You ought to be more careful,” she reprimanded him. She reminded him of Donna. “What were you investigating?”

Roy grinned at her wearily. He was too tired to care anymore. “Ever hear of the Dollhouse?”

* * *

Doctor Megan Morse looked at Echo tiredly. Her beautiful face was marred by a network of scars, each one thin and surgical in appearance—barely a year old. “There you go Echo,” she said, handing the bulky, muscled man with the mental capacities of a toddler a lollipop. The man unwrapped it and placed it in his mouth, smiling serenely.

“Hello Doctor,” Richard Grayson, Megan’s boss, walked in the door. He smiled, his blue eyes marginally warmer than they usually were. Grayson was one of the most broken men that Megan had ever known, and she worked in the Dollhouse. Everyone here was broken in one way or another.

“Hello Mr. Grayson,” she said. “You can go now, Echo,” she said, nodding at the active. Echo smiled and left.

“How is he?” Grayson asked, watching him leave.

“He’s fine, physically. The drugs came out of his system well enough. I understand that Barbara has some concern about him though.”

“She and Kent both,” Grayson frowned. “There’s something going on here, Doctor Morse.”

Megan shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

“You don’t have much of a life outside of here, do you?” There was something off about the way that Grayson asked that. She turned to him, confused.

“Do any of us, really?” She asked. She looked out, of her office, where she could see the actives in their _tabula rasa_ state. A group including Sierra, Echo, and November, were doing tai chi. “This place consumes you. You know that. It swallows you up and eats you, chewing up your morals and your soul. There’s nothing left of _you_ when it’s done with you. All that’s left is an empty shell.” She touched her scars faintly, tracing the raised lines that Alpha had left on her face.

“We’re not shells,” Grayson disagreed. “We’ve all got our reasons for doing this.”

“Do we?” Megan asked, turning to him. “Our reasons don’t matter. What we do… it destroys us. The road to hell, Mr. Grayson.”

Grayson smiled ruefully, shaking his head. “And that’s why I come talk to you.” He turned away. “Now, I have a meeting with a client.”

“You’re not sending Echo out again?” Megan demanded, surprised. “Not so soon!”

“Not Echo. Victor. He’s been requested by his favorite client.”

Megan pursed her lips. “You know I don’t like multiple imprints of the same person,” she said. “My diagnostics clearly prove—”

“Different imprint this time,” Grayson said, waving away her concerns. “A whole new fantasy.”

Mouth still pursed, but satisfied nonetheless, Megan turned away.

* * *

Brooks was in his apartment. Roy saw red. He grabbed her throat and slammed her against the wall, his gun out and pressed against her head before she could make a move of her own.

She looked terrified. She wore a suit instead of a dress—it was stained with mud and ripped to shreds. Her lip was cut and her face was bruised—someone had worked her over lately.

“I didn’t know!” She gasped, her hands clawing at the fingers that were locked around her throat. “I swear I didn’t know, I just got the information from the phone call…”

He slammed her against the wall again, making her gasp in pain. “Why should I believe you?”

“They want to kill me!” She yelled as he loosened his grip slightly, enough to permit her to speak at the very least. “They want me dead as much as they want you dead, and I thought—”

Roy laughed. He was drunk, in his defense. He let her fall to the ground, where she landed with a painful _thump_. “Get out.”

“ _Please_ ,” she rasped, massaging her throat. “They’ll kill me.”

“Good. Then I don’t have to.”

Her face darkened. She left.

A body turned up in the river the next week. A Vietnamese woman about her height and description, wearing a green dress and a necklace with an arrow on it.

Roy drank heavily that night, and when Cassie asked him why, he just shrugged.

* * *

“Something’s wrong,” Kent said to Babs over the phone.

“How wrong?” Babs asked, gesturing to Karen.

“Echo was wiped.”

Babs froze. “Impossible.” She breathed.

“Well obviously _not_!” Kent shouted. “He’s in a _vault_ , and has amnesia, and you have _any_ idea how much trouble we’re all going to be in if this gets out?”

“What’s wrong?” Karen asked, noticing how pale Babs had become. Babs grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and wrote _Alpha_. Karen blanched, and ran to get Dick.

“He remotely wiped Echo,” Babs muttered, wiping her brow.

“Who did?” Kent said. “Gordon, do you know who did this?”

“No clue,” she lied. Kent wasn’t supposed to know about Alpha. Hell, _Karen_ had only just been granted the necessary clearance—all probably part of Dick’s Asshole Plan to Replace Her. The capitals were deserved, as were the ones in Bab’s Plan to Tell Dick That She Has Enough Blackmail Material to Bring Down This Operation if He Tries.

“What are we going to do?” Kent demanded.

An idea came to Babs. A wild, crazy, ridiculous idea…

“Does he have his phone?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent.”

* * *

“Roy.” Donna was standing in his office, looking pained. Roy glared at her, shoving his cactus into a box.

“I don’t want to hear it Donna,” he snarled.

“Roy, I’m _sorry_ ,” she whispered.

“Go away,” he said, unpinning his map from the wall with unnecessary force. It ripped in his hands and he swore. “I’m busy.”

“ _Roy_.”

“Saying my name over and over again doesn’t change anything,” he growled. “I’m fired. Yay. Now you can go back to your happy, healthy, sane partner and not have to worry about me anymore.”

“You think I’ll stop?” She demanded, glaring at him. “Roy, I never stopped.”

He spun on his feel. “Fuck you, Donna. I don’t need you. I don’t need…” He gestured wildly to the Bureau at large. “ _This_.”

“Roy, please,” she said, approaching him.

“Go away.”

“Stop _pushing_ me away!” Donna exclaimed, grabbing his arms. “This is just like what happened when you went under with Nguyen.”

“This is _nothing_ like that,” he growled, pushing her away.

“You were obsessed over Nguyen, and now you’re obsessed over… _him_ ,” she pointed to the photograph that Roy had received in the mail. A black male, muscled and tall, dressed in a swimsuit. _Active Echo_ , was written on the bottom in calligraphy.

“They’re _out_ there, Donna!” He shouted. “They’re ruining people’s lives, making them do God knows what…”

“Stop it,” Donna said. “Roy, please, _stop it_.”

“I can’t,” Roy said. “I can’t. He was _at_ the compound, Donna, I saw him.”

“Roy—”

“Stop _saying_ that!” He screamed. “Stop saying my name like you think I’m a lunatic! Like you think—”

Donna cupped his face in her hands. “Roy. Please. _Listen to me_. Just for once in your life, stop being angry, and listen to me.” She stared at him intently. “I don’t know if the Dollhouse is real or not. But I _do_ believe that if you keep chasing after them wildly, like you are, you’re going to get killed.”

“Like you care,” he snarled, shoving her away from him. She stumbled backwards, looking as if he’d punched her instead of just pushed her away.

“Fine!” She snapped, eyes blazing. “Go ahead, Roy. Go destroy everything you’ve ever worked for. And when you figure out that you’ve been chasing ghosts… don’t come to me.”

She left Roy alone with his cactus and his photographs.

**Author's Note:**

> #the last line originally was #alone with his cactus and his photographs of the hot shirtless man #but i decided it should be a wee bit more serious #obviously this is worse if you know more about the Dollhouse because I kinda barely touched some stuff #like #the sex #i really was uncomfortable with writing it explicitly #but yeah that's all happening #and if you can figure out what's happening to Wally you get a cookie #let's play who's who


End file.
